


the city of chains

by rievu



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, i don't really know what i'm doing but i'm trying alright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: Once upon a time, magisters swollen with their hubris built a city out of chained slaves and inscribed a rune into its foundations with the streets. They sought to reach the throne of the gods, and they filled the streets with blood. The magisters were struck down for their folly, but the city they wrought remained as Kirkwall. Now, Kirkwall is wracked with a sickening plague that warps its citizens into monsters while the Fifth Blight spreads its way across Ferelden. With little choice, Hawke takes her family to her mother's old home and bears the burden of the Hunt to save the ones she loves, even if the price is blood.// dragon age 2 but with a bloodborne au





	1. a full and desperate moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PeregrineMusings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeregrineMusings/gifts).



> 1\. i'm literal shit at writing summaries  
> 2\. i know,,, nothing about bloodborne
> 
> this is a gift for a friend who loves dragon age 2 and bloodborne!! i am eternally humbled and grateful to be your friend ;u; 
> 
> hopefully, i do this au justice, and hopefully, this isn't a trainwreck!

The moon is large and full as it hangs low in the night sky. The scent of sour iron lies heavy and redolent in the air. The streets are dark and empty save for a couple of lamplights that are few and far in between, and the light that they offer do nothing to alter the state and the atmosphere of the city. In fact, Hawke would have to say that it only makes Kirkwall seem more menacing and ominous than without. At least without the light, you wouldn’t be able to see the beasts.   
  
Hawks sighs and shoulders her staff as she surveys the scene in front of her. The only chance she would have for shelter is in a small, worn-down house in Lowtown that’s easy to barricade for a few short hours of rest. However, the way is blocked by a pair of hulking beasts with their jaws wide open to reveal the sharp points of their teeth. Red crystals jut out from their backs and shoulders, and the harsh, grating sound of red lyrium digs into Hawke’s ears.  “Honestly, out of all the times they could’ve chosen, they chose now,” Hawke grumbles as she draws her staff. A few strands of mana crackle around her as she prepares to launch a few volleys of magic. The familiar tug of magic sucks through the air and surges around her, and with a harsh blast, the air around the beasts explode into flame. Hawke doesn’t waste any time and quickly lunges at the closest beast in order to stab the blade of her staff down into it.    
  
The beast bellows with pain, but with a snap of her fingers, Hawke casts a hasty glyph of paralysis below the ground and traps both beasts down for a few more precious seconds. She yanks her staff out of the flesh of the beast and slashes sideways to blind the creature. Then, with a flurry of ice, she encases the second beast in a skeleton of ice. She’s just about to take care of the blinded beast, but the second beast breaks and shatters into a myriad of glistening silver ice shards. Hawke barely has time to blink before a woman lowers her bulky shield and yells, “Beast! Behind you!”    
  
“I know!” Hawke yells right back as she lifts her staff into the air. But just before she can cast a fireball, vines erupt from the cobblestones and restrain the beast. A single cross-bolt lands squarely between the beast’s eyes, and a flicker of silver bursts out of nowhere to stab a large greatsword right down on the skull of the beast.   
  
Hawke stands there, utterly confused at the sudden appearance of what looks like other hunters. The man who appears in a silver flash yanks his sword out and reaches down to pull the bolt out as well. “Varric,” he said simply as he turns to extend the bolt out. Hawke cocks her head and squints at the bolt. Is he referring to her? However, a dwarf shoulders past her with a mumbled “excuse me” and grabs the bolt.  “Thanks, Broody,” he chuckles before he wheels around to face Hawke. “So, you’re a new one here, aren’t you?” the dwarf says with a smile on his face.   
  
Hawke looks around her and observes the party surrounding her. The woman with the shield is heavily armored, and beside her, an elf woman stands poised on her toes, almost as if she is ready to run away at any instant. Vallaslin curls around the elf girl’s cheeks — has to be Dalish — and she has wide, green eyes that stare right back at Hawke with bright curiosity. The other elf has silver tattoos, and Hawke assumes that he might be Dalish as well, but his accent isn’t entirely the lilt and hum of the Dalish. If she had to hazard a guess, she’d say Tevinter, but she couldn’t imagine why an elf from Tevinter would be out here, free to roam and hunt.   
  
“So, welcome to the wonderful city of Kirkwall,” Varric says as he gestures to the dark and gloomy buildings around him. “Normally, we don’t get many tourists, but I’m sure that we could get something arranged.”

“I’m Aveline,” the woman with the shield says. “Used to be the guard captain when there is a guard around.”

“What happened to the guard?” Hawke asks. She claps a hand to her mouth as soon as the question leaves her lips; that probably isn’t the best question to ask immediately.

Aveline gives her a strained and bitter smile before she answers, “Most of them are dead, beast or not.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hawke breathes out slowly. She still feels like a dumb idiot for asking that question.

“Merrill,” the elf woman hums. “I’m Merrill. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m afraid we don’t see many new people here.” She tilts her head up to stare at the sky and the low-hanging moon before she says, “The city tends to kill them before we ever get a chance to meet them, you see.”

Varric nudges Merrill in the side and apologetically says, “Sorry, Daisy means well. The elf over there is Fenris, but I like to call him Broody. You probably already know why. I mean, just look at that face, that countenance! That’s brooding, alright. But yeah, not many visitors here to Kirkwall. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here?” 

“Oh, you know,” Hawke replies lightly. “I just love killing beasts and getting chomped by a couple of them every now and then.” She smiles wryly, and she swears that she could hear Fenris snort a little bit. She flashes her classic grin at him before her expression turns more somber as she answers truthfully, “I’m looking for a healer, a Warden. Anyone that’ll cure my sister, and I heard that Kirkwall was a place for that.”   
  
And it was true. Hawke didn’t have much else of a choice. Ferelden was overrun with dark spawn and wracked with the Fifth Blight, and every warden was dead. They were so close to making out of Lothering alive, but then, her mother discovered a long, jagged gash on Bethany’s leg that was tainted black. They all knew that there were only a few options left. They could kill her before the taint took her completely, or they could seek out a cure. Weisshaupt was the most reliable answer. A fortress full of Wardens was undoubtedly safer from the darkspawn when they overflowed past Ferelden’s borders, and her father once told her a tale about Wardens being able to stop the taint from spreading in people’s bodies. However, it was too far away, nestled in the Anders, and Hawke was left with only one dark legend from her mother’s stories to rely on.   
  
Kirkwall, the city of blood and slaves, with labyrinths upon labyrinths of streets and underground tunnels and sewers. Carved into the cliffsides by the seas, it was a city built by Tevinter magisters once upon a time ago. It was a city rumored to still have rivers of blood flowing beneath the cobblestones, and some whispered that the streets were shaped to be runes to channel power from the Fade. And most importantly, Kirkwall’s Chantry was the only chantry in southern Thedas that offered special draughts that could cure any disease. Not only that, her father once told her of a magical substance called paleblood that could grant you the abilities to do anything in the world. Her father told her that story only once when Bethany and Carver were both already asleep, but he never told her again. No matter; she still remembered it.

Her mother was from Kirkwall herself; the Amells were a noble house in Kirkwall before its unsightly fall. Her mother used to reminisce about the golden days of Kirkwall when it was a bustling hub of trade and excitement, not the dark and gloomy beast-ridden city that it was now. She used to tell Hawke stories about blood potions blessed by the Revered Mother and mixed by mages in the Gallows. Those potions saved her grandfather when he began to ail, and those potions also managed to get her brother back on his feet after a debilitating sickness. Now, Kirkwall was overwhelmed by some curse or some miniature blight as beasts suddenly began to prowl the streets. 

With the help of the Witch of the Wilds, Hawke and her entire family made it across the sea to Kirkwall. Bethany still held on, but her skin turned pale and her eyes began to turn glassy. Hawke needed to find something, some sort of cure, before it was too late. Carver was back home, guarding the dilapidated Amell estate for their mother and Bethany’s sake. For that, Hawke felt immensely grateful. Still, her urgent need was there, desperate and aching.    
  
“Well, Kirkwall used to be a place for healing, but now, it’s not much more than a shithole. Not even the merchants will go near the city, and we have to go outside the city limits to access them if we even have anything to trade. Kirkwall’s a godless place now, and there’s not much else to stay here for,” Varric says. He squints at Hawke and asks suspiciously, “But a Warden? Why didn’t you just go to Weisshaupt? You know, where Wardens actually live?” 

“No time,” Hawke replies shortly. “My siblings are dying, my mother is weak, and we were ass-deep in darkspawn. You tend to pick the quickest choice from there since we couldn’t stay in Ferelden for long.” 

“You’re from Ferelden too?” Aveline asks. She pushes her way forward to examine Hawke’s face. “I barely managed to escape the Blight a couple months ago. How did you manage to get all of your family and yourself out?”

Hawke gives her a weak grin and answers, “We Hawkes tend to have a stubborn streak. Also, fire does a lot to keep darkspawn away.” She snaps her fingers and a small flame pops up to dance in the center of her palm. Merrill leans in closer to get a better look, but Hawke sees how Fenris leans away from the flame as if it would catch onto him and set him ablaze. She takes a closer look at him and wonders what could have happened to make him so skittish around magic. Surely he knows Merrill is a mage too? The sensation of mana just drips off of her, almost as if she didn’t bother to clutch her mana tightly to her. Then again, she’s Dalish. The Dalish don’t spend years in a village with a Chantry and its Templars next door.   
  
Aveline beckons Hawke to come closer, and when she does, Aveline places her hand on Hawke’s shoulder in what’s meant to be a reassuring way. Hawke had gone so long without gentle touch that she flinches from it, and Aveline’s expression softens even more. Hawke doesn’t want pity; that isn’t it at all. She stiffens and straightens up, keeps the good posture that her mother begged her to keep throughout her entire childhood, and looks at Aveline straight in the eyes. “Come on,” Aveline says more quietly. “We’ll take you to the Hanged Man and see what we can rustle up for you. We’ll find something.”

“Are you not making a hasty decision?” Fenris suddenly says. His eyes bore into Hawke’s countenance, and he furrows his brow as he says darkly, “She’s a  _ mage _ .”

“And you regularly spend time with Merrill and Anders who are both mages. You can survive a couple more hours with another,” Aveline chides. She turns to Varric and asks, “Varric, are you alright with me bringing her back?”

Varric shrugs, “Nope, I actually like her. She’s got some spunk to her, and you don’t see that in Kirkwall often. Not that we see new people in Kirkwall often either.”

Hawke narrows her eyes, trying to figure out what he meant by it. “Excuse me?” Hawke asks out loud. She genuinely doesn’t like the implications of that. The last time she heard that, it was from a blood mage who tried to take her arm for his own version of the Chantry’s draught.

Merrill drifts over, and softly, she explains, “You still have a good personality. Kirkwall tends to kill its people and if not that, it’ll start killing you from the inside out.” She pauses and twiddles her fingers before she continues, “Well, not that it doesn’t do that already, but sooner or later, you’ll lose your sense of humor, your sense of life, your sense of passion. From there, it’s not long until you turn into a beast.”

“Oh,” Hawke says blankly. “I’d rather not turn into a beast. Can I choose to not do that?”

Merrill laughs, and it feels like a thing of beauty in the dismal gloom of Kirkwall. She beckons closer, and Hawke follows the group as they deftly find their way through the curling and twisting maze of Kirkwall streets.

Hawke doesn’t realize just how much Kirkwall sucks until she follows them to whatever or wherever the Hanged Man is. The streets of Kirkwall takes sharp turns at unexpected places, and the smooth paved streets of Hightown turn into jagged gravel and even dirt in some places when they arrive in Lowtown. And oh, Lowtown is even worse. Hawke only stayed in Hightown, venturing within what she affectionately called “the hell bubble.” Any further, and she knew that she would have gotten hopelessly lost. She never believed the rumors about the city being shaped like runes of magic, but as they wander further and further into the depths of Lowtown, Hawke reconsiders it.

Merrill turns to her and brightly says, “Don’t worry if it’s all confusing. It was confusing to me at first too. Varric had to give me a ball of string to help me find my way around.” Hawke blinks at the mention of string and wonders just how exactly one would use it to find ways. Would you have to enchant it to point the right direction? Is that even possible? Hawke almost loses herself in her thoughts, but Merrill’s voice pulls her out and continues, “But Lowtown isn’t so bad. Darktown gets even worse! That’s where Anders lived for a while before his place got destroyed by beasts.” She taps her chin in thought for a while before she adds cheerily, “I think he got out through the secret passage in one of the Hightown houses. Varric, which one was it?”

“The old Amells’ place,” Varric tosses back.

Hawke stops in her tracks, and her eyes widen as she works her way through the words. The Amell estate? A passage straight to Darktown? That’s a direct ticket to danger and death, and that’s where  _ Bethany _ is. 

“You okay, Hawke?” Varric asks, his eyebrows knitting together with worry.

She blinks and tries to regulate her breathing before she shakily says, “That’s where my family is staying. My mother… My mother was an Amell and left before the plague started in Kirkwall.”

“Oh,” Varric says. His own expression darkens and he glances over at the others before he gives Hawke a weak smile and spreads his hands wide. “Well, we’ve actually been using that passage for years before you arrived. Hope you don’t mind?”

Hawke shakes her head and replies, “I don’t care what you did in the house before I came. That’s none of my business, but is it possible for beasts to get in through the passage? My  _ family _ is there.”

“Well, beasts aren’t that intelligent,” Fenris finally says. Hawke’s gaze snaps over to him as he shrugs, “And I think you would need some sense to access the passage. Don’t worry, they should be fine.” He turns on his heel and starts striding forward once more. Hawke lets out a soft sigh of relief and continues on walking.

Finally, they reach an old building. Additional boards are nailed on to the outer walls — probably to keep out rain and wind out — and an aging sign hangs over the door. A hangman’s noose is carved into it, but it’s so weathered that Hawke could barely make it out. Varric opens the door by jiggling the old knob and kicking the door in the middle. It reluctantly opens, and warm firelight slips out in the opening. Varric opens the door entirely and gestures dramatically for Hawke to enter. She flashes him the classic Hawke grin before she steps over the threshold. 

A rich, low voice calls out, “Now what do we have here?” A handsome Rivaini woman props her head up on the other side of the bar counter and throws a wink to Hawke. Gold glitters on her fingers, her ears, and around her neck, and a blue bandanna keeps her hair out of her eyes. Two daggers are strapped on her back, and the firelight makes her amber eyes glint and shine.  _ A rogue _ , Hawke thinks. Despite her nonchalant manner, her arms are well-toned, and her eyes dart quickly over Hawke right where the weakest points of her armor are. “I’m Isabela, darling. Nice to meet you.”

The fire itself crackles merrily in the fireplace, and Hawke sees a figure sitting on the stool, bent over the fireplace with a poker in his hands. A staff is propped up against the wall beside him. Hawke quickly decides that he  _ must _ be a mage. The same feeling of humming mana surrounds him, but he clutches it more tightly. Circle-taught then, not the wild thrum of the Dalish. He looks up, and Hawke sees a man with stubble on his chin and dark blond hair pulled back from his face. The flickering firelight makes his dark circles even more prominent, and shadows play across his face in a way that makes him seem exhausted. Or perhaps, he already is? Hawke wouldn’t blame him; she’s felt exhausted for nearly every single day here. He sets the poker down and gives Hawke a small smile. “Has Varric dragged you in like he dragged the rest of us here?” he says jovially. He stands up and brushes the soot off his robe before he straightens the raggedy feathers lining the mantle of his robes. Then, he walks over and extends his hand out to Hawke while he introduces, “Anders. And you?”

Hawke shakes his hand firmly and replies, “Hawke. With an e at the end.” 

Varric cuts in between them and points to Anders. “Blondie here is our resident healer and Grey Warden. He’ll be able to help you,” he says. “And Rivaini is our lost pirate. There’s another one, Sebastian Vael, but I like to call him Choir-Boy. He’s probably out doing his usual rounds. He might be back in time for you to meet him, but then again, he might not. ”

“Oh, Varric,” Isabela drawls as she made her way around the bar counter. “I’m never lost. I only take intentional detours.”

Varric snorts, “Okay, Isabela, whatever you say.”

Isabela sizes up Hawke before she comments, “That’s Captain Isabela to you, Varric. Trust me, I’d rather be on the Siren’s Call than this mess of a city, but this mess of a city is where you lot are.  _ So _ , I suppose I’m here for the meanwhile. And you, sweetness? What brings you to our nightmare of a city?”

“A cure,” Hawke quietly says. “I’m here to get a cure for my sister. I’ll do whatever it takes.” She takes in a sharp inhale of breath before she gambles and blurts out, “Even blood.”

Her last words causes every single person to focus in on her. Fenris moves his hand towards the handle of his blood and takes a step forward. Hawke feels the sharp tugging sensation of lyrium, and with horror, she realizes that all the markings along his skin are lyrium instead of tattooed ink. Merrill’s eyes track Hawke’s movements, the twitch of her fingers, the lift and fall of her ribcage in time with her breaths. Isabela keeps her relaxed stance, but her eyes grow harder. Aveline just lets out the longest and most disgusted noise that Hawke ever heard.

Anders exhales and asks, “What do you know about blood in Kirkwall?”

Hawke makes a face at Anders and says dryly, “I’m not a blood mage nor am I planning to become a blood mage. You don’t have to grab your weapons right away. I just… I just heard that the draughts that the Chantry used to make here had blood in them. Could just be horror stories though.”

The entire room visibly relaxes, and Hawke wrinkles her brow with confusion. Anders examines her face for a while before he slowly says, “What did you hear?”

Hawke shrugs, “My mother used to tell me about the draughts that the Chantry used to make since she used to live here before the plague. She mentioned that they always had an iron aftertaste to them.”

Anders’s shoulders sag and he looks at the others to reluctantly say, “There’s no use in trying to hide it from her if her mother was from Kirkwall.”

Aveline clears her throat loudly and says, “I brought her here because her sister has darkspawn taint.”

Anders’s expression crumbles even more, and he turns away from Hawke to sink back on his stool. Everyone else disperses to their own areas of the pub to clean their weapons and organize their inventories, but Hawke follows Anders to the fireplace. She unslings her staff from her back and sets it next to Anders’s staff along the wall. He glances at her before resuming his poking at the fireplace. The fire flickers slightly, and Hawke thoughtlessly reaches in to grab a handful of fire. She tosses it back and forth between her hands with wisps of magic — an absent-minded tic she developed during long, dark Ferelden winters — and looks up to see a strange expression on Anders’s face. Awe? Shock? Confusion? Perhaps all three? She raises an eyebrow and asks, “Have you never done it before? I can stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No,” he admits. “I’ve never thought of doing it before.” He wryly smiles, “I don’t think any of the first enchanters would have appreciated it in the Circle, and the Wardens were always too busy and tired to waste mana and time on things like that. But let’s not focus on that. Aveline said your sister had the taint?”

Hawke nods and explains, “A wound on her leg from a darkspawn.” Her voice grows quieter with the weight of the memory, and she slowly says, “We were  _ so close _ to making it out of Lothering. We were going to flee, and we made it to the edge of the town without noticing. Then, some twisted creature caught our scent or  _ something _ . Before we realized it, we were surrounded.” She grimaces and looks down at the fire in her hands before tossing it back to the coals. “We fought our way out. Carver and I were recruits who escaped the slaughter in Ostagar, and Bethany could handle her own magic just fine. We got out and started running through the Bannorn, but then, we found the wound.” 

Well, the running through the Bannorn bit wasn't entirely true. It was mostly on dragon's back (or is it witch's back?), but she isn't going to tell Anders that.

Anders furrows his brow and inquires, “How did you make it out of Ferelden with her still alive? It should have taken you much longer to get through Ferelden, all the way to the Waking Sea, and here to Kirkwall. I know from experience. I’m originally from Ferelden too before I got recruited by Orlesian Wardens and stationed out here in the Free Marches.”

Hawke shrugs, “We had help from kind people along the way, and Bethany’s a stubborn girl. She’s barely holding onto consciousness now though. I need something to help her. I need to get a Chantry’s draught, a Warden’s blessing,  _ anything _ .”

Anders looks at her doubtfully, but he shakes his head and mumbles, “You don’t even know what Chantry’s draught is. Blood. That’s all you know.”

“Then, care to educate me?” Hawke challenges. “I’d be more than willing to listen, especially if it’ll save my sister.”

Anders presses his lips together and stirs up the ashes and coals in the fireplace with the poker, watching it flare up and grow just a tad brighter. “Let’s start off with darkspawn blood,” he wearily says. He avoids Hawke’s gaze and continues, “That’s bad. Don’t drink or touch it ever. It’ll poison your mind and turn you into a ghoul. Lyrium is… Oh, you already know what lyrium is.” He looks up now and meets Hawke’s eyes straight-on. He enunciates his next words slowly and carefully, “Chantry’s blood. Blood of the dwarves. Blood of the earth. Blue blood. Templar’s drug. You already know what lyrium is since you’re a mage, but those are just some of the names for them. It’ll drive you mad with too much or too little. The chantry here used to mix some lyrium in with their healing draughts, but some suspect that they added something different, something extra. No one really knows what though, but it’s blood alright. Mixed by the mages in the Gallows and blessed by the Revered Mother.”

Hawke cocks her head as she listens to Anders. She doesn’t understand where this is exactly going, and she just wants the answer right away. Still, she shuts up and waits for the answer. Years of living with her mother’s lectures taught her patience if nothing else.

“And Wardens? I can’t tell you anything more since I swore the Warden’s Oath, but I’ll take a look at your sister and try to help her as best I can,” Anders finishes.

“Thank you,” Hawke sighs with gratitude. She shuts her eyes for a long time and revels in the sensation of warmth and  _ safety _ . To her, it feels like such a long time since she felt safe. Even in the dark corners of the Amell estate, Hawke felt like there were eyes watching her or some new danger waiting to spring out in the night. Actually, scratch that. She felt like that all the time because it’s dark for every miserable hour of the day in this miserable city. She looks up at Anders and wonders if he would know anything about paleblood. She decides to throw all caution to the wind and leans in closer, propping her elbows on her knees, and asks, “And paleblood? Do you know anything about paleblood?”

Anders’s face drains of color and he stammers, “P-paleblood?” He reins his expression back under his control and says, “No one really knows.”

Hawke eyes him suspiciously and says, “You say that like a person who really knows but just doesn’t want to tell.”

“I don’t actually know,” he insists. 

Hawke rolls her eyes and drawls, “Suuuuuuure.”

Anders shifts his gaze from Hawke’s face to the fire before he admits, “I have only a hypothesis.”

“Wanna tell me?” 

Anders shakes his head, “No, you won’t ever need it. Now, your sister. If you take me back to where you’re keeping her, I’ll take a look and see if there’s any hope. Then, I’ll do my best to save her. Is that all?”

“Paleblood,” Hawke stubbornly insists. “I want to know more about paleblood. What do you want in return? I just want to know, and I want to repay you for what you’re doing for Bethany.” She bites her lips and wonders if she’s gone too far. Her mother always told her that her curiosity would bite her back one day. Is today that day or not?

Anders presses a hand to his temples and tiredly replies, “Fine. I’ll let you know what my theories are after I handle the first problem. And what do I want in return?” His expression grows more serious as he says, “Help us. Kirkwall is a mess with beasts everywhere. Help us clean out the streets, the people still surviving, the people suffering with the plague. Help us, and I’ll help you.”

Hawke opens her mouth to speak, but she shuts it and tries to satisfy her burning curiosity with the few facts she has in her hands. Instead, she says, “My family’s been staying in the old Amell estate since that’s where my mum used to live before Kirkwall went to shit.”

“Ah,” Anders comments. He looks positively sheepish as he shifts in his seat. “I’m… Familiar with it.”

Hawke chortles out a small laugh and says, “Don’t worry, Varric already told me about the passage. You  _ did _ block up the passageway properly, right?”

Anders nods, “I did. There shouldn’t be any beasts able to get through. For one, you need opposable thumbs and a decent amount of intelligence to get through now, and most beasts don’t have those anymore.” She stands up and reaches out to grab her staff, but she pauses and glances back. “For what it’s worth,” she says with simple honesty. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Anders doesn’t have a word to say, but Hawke leaves it at that. She swings her staff up and away from the wall, and it sings a comforting and familiar tune of magic back to her. With a haphazard twirl, she waved goodbye to Varric and says loudly, “Thanks for letting me come here and thanks for all the help. I’ll be going back home now.” 

Varric sets down his crossbow that he polished oh so carefully and walks his way over to Hawke. “No, no, it was my pleasure,” he insists as he pats the small of Hawke’s back. It’s as far as he can reach, and Hawke feels a little bad for him. She’s always been a lanky sort of girl, but she thinks that Varric would be more offended if she bent down for him to reach her shoulder properly. 

When they reach the house, Anders takes Bethany aside. They retreat into some dark and shadowy room in the Amell estate, and Fenris and Merrill keep her away, keep her from eavesdropping. It rankles at the bottom of her heart, at the bottom of her veins, to see her little sister being taken away. She can barely walk, and Anders has to support her with one arm. However, her mother whispers, “It’s for the best. Let the Warden cure her.” The rest of Varric’s group shuffles around awkwardly near the foyer until her mother ushers them into a slightly less dusty part of the manor.

Then, Anders takes Bethany outside the house to some unknown location that Hawke will never know. Carver protests loudly against this, but a word from their mother hushes him. Instead, Hawke and Carver pace together on the musty carpet in unified irritation and sharp-thorned worry. Their mabari nudges at their heels and whines. Hawke spares a moment to absent-mindedly scratch Dog’s head, but her thoughts are far away.

Anders and Bethany don’t come back for hours.

Hawke nearly wears a hole into the carpet with the constant pacing that she does, and her mother and brother are nearly the same. Fenris and Merrill have already gone through nearly everything of interest — which is to say, very little — in the abandoned estate, and now, boredom ease across their faces. 

“I’m going out to find them,” Hawke abruptly declares. She stops in her tracks, and Dog slams into the back of her legs. He circles around her and lies down over her feet while whining. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want her to go.

The sentiment is nearly mirrored around the entire room, and her mother says sharply, “I know you’re worried, but you can’t go out there alone!” 

Her brother crosses his arms and says, “If you’re going, I’m going with you.” He’s got that stubborn set to his shoulders and that glint in his eyes that means that he won’t go down from this argument without a fight. He’ll go whether she likes it or not. Traditional Ferelden stubbornness if anything else.

“Well, if you two are going to go, I’d like to go too!” Merrill pipes up. She stands up with her staff in her loose grip, and she flashes a smile at Hawke.

“No,” Fenris calls out. His tone is sharp and firm, but Merrill only pouts in response. She folds her arms and opens her mouth to say something, but Fenris repeats, “No.”

“And why ever not?” she says quickly, voice like quicksilver. 

“It’s dangerous,” he says evenly.

Hawke peers at Merrill, and she can sense the magic rippling across Merrill. It reminds her of the ponds in Ferelden, the ones where she used to skip rocks on. Each and every ripple radiated outward, and right now, she can feel the smooth touch of Merrill’s magic rippling and lapping out on the air. Curiously, she asks, “By any chance, has that ever stopped you? Danger, that is.”

Merrill glances back to give her a nod and another smile. The sensation of her magic deepens, and Hawke raises an eyebrow at it. Fenris, however, pinches his lips together into a thin, reticent line before he finally admits, “...No.”

“Alright,” Carver interrupts. He has a decisive edge to his voice that signals his irritation. It’s the tone that Hawke’s heard far too many time during their arduous journey to Kirkwall. “Done deal, let’s go.”

“Carver… Marian…” her mother says now. Her voice is weak, and Hawke looks over to see her stand up from her old, moth-eaten armchair. She looks frail as she stands up, but there’s a spark in her eye that doesn’t die out. “Please don’t go,” she says, but her tone isn’t pleading, isn’t begging. Her mother was never a woman to  _ beg. _

“We have to go for Bethany, mother,” Hawke says despondently. It’s been far too long since Anders took Bethy away, and her worry pricks at the back of her mind. Patience was never one of her virtues, and she can veritably taste the hot impatience burning at the back of her throat.

“I can stay with your mother,” Isabella suddenly offers. She pulls her gleaming dagger out of its sheath and casually twirls it in her hand as she says, “We’ve got more than enough experience protecting people from beasts, so don’t you worry a single thing.”

“Yeah,” Varric agrees. “We’ll keep the beasts out of your house. Don’t worry, kids, we’ve got this covered.”

“Besides, no beast would want to come around with Aveline here,” Isabella teases as she cocks her head at Aveline. “She slaughters them so regularly to the point where the beasts know better than to attack her.”

“That’s not true, Isabella. Stop that,” Aveline quickly snaps. She flushes red in her cheeks and at the tips of her ears in the classic Ferelden fashion. “The beasts aren’t sentient anyways,” she mutters. “At least, not the ones in the streets, murdering people.”

“Well, it’s kinda true,” Varric admits. “They avoid you, Aveline.”

Aveline retorts back, “Just because it happened once doesn’t mean that it’ll always happen.”

Isabella lets out a throaty chuckle before she points out, “Then, what about that one near Hightown?”

“Or the one near the chantry?” Varric adds.

Isabella slides her dagger back in its sheath as she triumphantly says, “Or that one time you scared a beast off from Anders’s clinic in Darktown!”

Aveline lets out a long and heavy sigh before she turns away from the two to face Hawke. “We’ll keep your mother safe, but don’t go near the dangerous areas. Not too close to Darktown, alright? It’s only a guess, but I would assume that Anders went to the borders of the city instead of deeper into the more dangerous parts.”

“Thank you,” Hawke says in a breathy gust of relief. She picks up her staff and adjusts her breastplate. Carver follows suit, and Merrill and Fenris follow her out of the door. Just before she leaves, her mother hurries up to her and clasps her hands around Hawke’s.

“Come back,” she says. “Come back with Carver and Bethany and everyone else. Don’t lose anyone out there.”

“Don’t worry,” Hawke says with a sad smile. She knows that her mother will worry no matter what she says.

When she steps outside, the night air immediately nips at her skin with its cold touch. She can feel her ears and the tips of her nose reddening from the chilly air, and she can’t hold back the involuntary shiver that runs down her spine. Hawke summons a small flicker of flame to the tip of her index finger and cups her other hand around the flame, trying to warm up. Carver sidesteps towards her, and she leans in to let him wrap his hands around hers. They warm up, slowly but surely, as the moon shines down on them with its eerie, silver light.  Fenris exchanges glances with Merrill before he tilts his head towards the left. Silence passes until the howl of a beast slices through the night. Fenris waits for a few bated breaths before he sighs, “Judging from the sound, it’s coming from Lowtown near the third sector of the city. We can take a route that goes through the sixth sector to avoid it.”

Merrill beams at Fenris and says, “Should I pull out my ball of string? I can keep track of the way.”

Fenris looks like he’s resisting the urge to sigh again, and exasperation shows in every line of his face. However, he reins his expression back and says, “If we enter an unknown area, you may. For now, save it.”

They walk along the streets for a while before Merrill suddenly pipes up, “Your name is Marian? That’s a very pretty name. Why did you introduce yourself as Hawke then?”

Beside Hawke, Carver lets out a loud snort but Hawke quickly elbows him. “Nah,” she says. “Hawke suits me better. Marian’s a name for a girl who picks flowers and milks the cows and whatever. Hawke’s a better name for a city like this.” A smile curls around Hawke’s lips as she quips, “And besides! Hawke and Carver sounds better than Marian and Hawke. We sound like some sort of fighting duo.” She taps her brother’s head and gives him a good rap on the metal of his armor as she laughs, “We could open up a fight club or compete with that kind of name.”

“You realize that’s just my name, right?” Carver grouses. “Carver Hawke?”

“Yeah,” Hawke laughs. Her voice is still tense, tight at the corners of her mouth, but she still tries to alleviate the pallor of worry hanging over her and her brother. She can’t tell if it’s working since she can still feel the strain, but she continues, “That makes it even better and funnier. You’ve got a big sword to carve things up with, and I’ve got the magic to blast them with. They’ll go flying into the air with the sheer force! Carver and Hawke. Hawke and Carver. Good name.”

They keep walking down the street, and their footsteps are the only sound that echoes in the night. Merrill softly hums behind Hawke, and Hawke pushes forward. Carver stands off to her right, and Fenris trails behind them all. But suddenly, Hawke can’t hear the sounds of a fourth set of footsteps. Then, she hears the scrape of claws against cobblestones.

Before she can react, she feels a hard push and the bracingly cold rush of lyrium to her left. She falls to the ground, gravel grating against her palms, and looks up to see Fenris standing between her and the beast. The ground beneath her shakes. Roots burst out of the ground, scattering rock and dirt to entwine around the beast and tie it down. Fenris doesn’t waste any time and lunges towards the beast with his greatsword drawn. 

Hawke scrabbles up on her feet and sees Merrill with her staff and left palm splayed out. Tendrils of magic encircle her and radiate out, emulating the roots that she summons forward again and again and again. 

Behind her, Carver calls out, “Marian!” His eyes are wide and wild, just like they were when he saw the ogre come after Bethany. Hawke grits her teeth and promises herself that she  _ will _ stay standing. 

She runs towards Carver and yells, “Go ahead! I’ll keep up!”

He grimaces, but he draws his sword too. Hawke backtracks to take a position behind him. Just as Carver swings his blade up to hit beast flesh, she sends up a fireball beneath his strike with practiced ease. Carver takes one step back just in time to avoid the blast, and without missing a beat, goes around to hit the beast’s back. Hawke taps the ground behind and scrawls a rough glyph of paralysis with the toe of her boot. Then, she sends a flurry of ice towards the beast approaching behind her. It rears its head back and howls with pain before it barrels towards her. The glyph of paralysis holds it in place and gives Hawke enough time to summon force magic to slam it down to the ground. “Ha!” she crows. “That’s a fist of the Maker for you!” 

Hawke raises her gaze to check on the others, and she spots the lyrium marks lighting up on Fenris’s skin. Slowly but surely, they glow a faint blue, and Fenris lunges towards another beast. The breath catches in Hawke’s throat when she sees him phase right through the beast with only a shower of blood trailing behind him. He whips around to raise the greatsword up and slams it down into the beast’s back. It screams loudly with a distinct high-pitched squeal, and when Hawke squints at it, she thinks that she might be able to recognize some of the twisted, grotesque features. Perhaps it was the girl she saw once on the next street over with boils beginning to run up and down her arms. Perhaps it was the young boy running through the streets with bare feet and infected scratches down his calves. She doesn’t want to think about children turning into beasts and focuses her attention on the beasts pouring out of the shadowy alleys.

More and more come, and Hawke grits her teeth. “Here we go again,” she mutters. She’s not sure if she can take all of them at once. With a wave of her hand and slam of her staff, she forces a corona of ice out of the ground to impale several of them. Carver steps neatly to the side and uses the momentum of one beast to his own advantage as he slashes and stabs. Fenris glows brighter and brighter until Hawke can physically taste the magic aura of pure lyrium in the air. It tastes like the crisp air before a lightning storm when the world is redolent with ozone and energy ready to strike. Then, Hawke tastes a tang of iron in the air. 

She glances over to see Merrill biting her lip and holding a knife over her wrist. Her staff is back on her back with its earthy, green energy tucked away. The only thing Hawke can sense from her is a deep, churning void that seems to suck her in. Neither of them can even move to stop her due to the beasts, but Merrill brings the knife down and screams out elvhen words as her blood splashes onto the ground. Red mist rises up from the ground and entwines around the beasts, forcing them to the ground and making their eyes bleed.

Fenris narrows his eyes and presses forward even harder. His armor is nearly drenched with beast’s blood, but his lyrium pulsates through the air and lends him more energy. 

“I didn’t order more, you know!” she calls out in a feeble attempt at humor. “Isn’t this enough fighting and dying for you beasts?” Hawke follows suit and tries to keep up with all the bodies hitting the floor. She only hopes that none of the bodies are theirs by the end of this. 

There’s only so much that four people can take though. They’ve taken down their fair share of beasts, but more seem to be coming out of thin air. Carver heaves out a loud war cry that catches the attention of several. Hawke’s almost too late, but she throws a lasso of mana through the air that locks them in place with sheer gravity. Merrill’s blood creeps in to choke the life out of them, and Carver and Fenris come in to finish them off with their swords. 

It’s not enough, and Hawke desperately wants to sit down and regain her breath. She doesn’t have any lyrium potions, and she doubts that the lyrium in Fenris’s skin will help her. She lifts her staff up with a weary arm, but she feels a hard wrench in the magic around her.

A beast suddenly crashes to the ground in front of her, and Hawke squints at the shadows with wary eyes. Bethany and Anders walk out with their armor absolutely coated with dark, almost black, blood. Hawke cries out, “Bethy!” 

Her sister ignores her and raises her own staff in the air. Flames bellow out from her and lick up with tongues of heat. They follow the trail of beast blood on the ground and leap to new beasts that come after them. Hawke hurries over to her sister while Anders hastily casts a creation spell for healing. Cool threads encircle her before sinking into her skin and reknitting torn skin and tissue back together, leaving it whole. Hawke almost wants to sag with sheer relief at the cool sensation of healing magic, but she holds her ground.

Bethany hurls another ball of fire over Hawke's head and follows it up with a sharp stab of her staff to the ground. Her mana resonates along the vibrations of the impact before threading out to encircle a beast with sharp tendrils of ice. However, her magic feels twisted and _off_ as it sails past Hawke. There’s a twisted song that wraps its away around the destructive magic Bethany weaves in the air. When Hawke throws a questioning look to Anders, he merely shrugs and casts more healing spells that ease Carver’s wounds. Some trails of healing magic circle around to Fenris who flinches at the touch. 

Hawke only allows herself one more minute of rest before she flings herself into the fray again. Now, there’s only one beast standing, and she sighs, “You wouldn’t mind just dying without me doing anything?” When the beast roars something incomprehensible back, she mumbles, “Didn’t think so. Give the Maker my regards.” Then, she raises her arms and summons a wave of immolating fire to burn the beast to cinders. 

It still stumbles out of the flames — dazed, bloody, and nearly dead, but still very much alive — and lets out one final snarl. Now, Merrill steps forward and with a wide, nearly ear-splitting, smile, she waves her red-stained hand to send her blood magic to the beast. It chokes on the red magic and claws at its own throat, leaving wounds in its skin and flesh. Finally, the last beast’s body thuds to the ground, and the shimmering threads of blood retreat from its body to wrap around Merrill once more. They hover around her in twining threads, and Merrill disperses them with a wave of her hand. However, Fenris grits out, “ _ Merrill.” _ His voice is dangerously low and grating.

Merrill looks up, her eyes open wider than they normally are. They glint and gleam, and blood leaks from the cuts on her wrist with a soft, pulsating glow. Hawke doesn’t want to think about it too much, but the rhythm of the blood pulses reminds her of a heartbeat. Merrill’s own heartbeat. “What?” the elf asks almost too innocently.

“Go any further, and I will be forced to do my job,” Fenris answers shortly. His eyes narrow as he surveys the blood, and his own lyrium pulses slightly in rhythm.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Oh, oh.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath as she sways on her feet. “I took too much again, didn’t I? I’m a little dizzy, Fenris.”

Fenris clicks his tongue disapprovingly before he casts his gaze over to Anders. “Go heal her, mage,” he orders brusquely. “Stem her bleeding.”

“Alright, alright,” Anders grumbles. “No need to be demanding.” He reaches into a pouch at his belt for a poultice and some torn bandages as he says, “I’ll do my best, but the wound won’t clot properly. Blood magic does that to people.”

“I don’t care, just get it done,” Fenris snaps back.

Worry snaps at the back of Hawke’s mind, and when she sees Fenris’s gaze stray over to her, she pastes on a bemused expression to mask some of the worry and fear. She’s not quite sure if she succeeded or not though. “Are you okay?” she chooses to say.

“I am fine,” he brusquely replies. “I only do my job.” He turns on his heel to face her fully, and as he does, the night breeze picks up a little bit. It carries the scent of blood, and the iron tang stays in Hawke’s mouth, but it also tousles Fenris’s silver hair enough to reveal the marks on his forehead. “When mages… No, any hunter,” he says. “When any hunter gets consumed by blood, lyrium, magic, whatever it may be, I am the one to put them down.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anders says dismissively. He gestures to Fenris, and his lip curls as he continues, “He’s the big bad wolf waiting outside your door, waiting for you to make a mistake. Then, he can pull your heart out with his  _ bare hands _ .” Merrill sighs when Anders says this, and when Hawke looks over at her, the elf has a weary look on her face as if she’s heard this a thousand times. 

Fenris bears the same expression on his face as he says blandly, “It is an effective way to kill beasts and people, disregarding armor and magic.” He presses his lips thinly together when he glances down at his hands though.

“Okay, whatever you want,” Anders says as he flaps his hand at Fenris. He returns to bandaging up Merrill

“Not a mistake,” Fenris snaps back, bitter and bold. “I kill when you have gone too far.”

“And you think I go too far every day,” Anders mutters with a grimace. 

“He’s the hunter of hunters,” Merrill piped up. Her face is pale but she musters up a weak smile as Anders ties off the last of her bandages. “He’ll be the one to kill me if I go too far. He’ll do it for any one of us. A heavy burden, I think, to have the responsibility of killing your friends when everything goes wrong.” She cracks a small smile and gestures to the remnants of her blood spilled across the street. “He’s never touched blood, so he’ll never turn. But the rest of us?” She shakes her head before continuing, “The rest of us have been in Kirkwall before the blood plague. He’ll be the last one standing out of all of us. Such a lonely burden.” Her breath escapes her in a sigh: soft, sibilant, and barely audible.

Fenris turns away without a word, and Hawke’s expression softens. She reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder and says, “I’m sorry. I hope that we never reach that point.” A wry smile crosses her face as she comments, “But for what it’s worth? I’ll be there at the end too. I’ve never touched the Chantry’s draughts, and same with Carver. You won’t be alone at the end.”

Fenris shrugs her hand off and grumbles, “If you don’t turn to blood magic. If Carver doesn’t turn to lyrium. Temptations have a way of working inside you until they kill you from the inside out.”

Hawke’s expression falls, and some part of her wants to snap, to retort something back. Still, she holds her tongue and quietly replies, “Nevermind. My apologies.”

Fenris glances around just in time to see the traces of Hawke’s awkward, disappointed look. He purses his lips when he noticed, and almost like an apology, he offers, “I should be the one to say that. You were only trying to help.”

Hawke dips her head at him before she trots over to Bethany. Her sister smiles weakly at her, The Taint left her skin with a deathly pallor and tinted her normally warm brown eyes over with milky silver. Hawke squints at her sister’s face and sure enough, she can spot the telltale black veins that thread below her sister’s skin. It doesn’t look like she’s been cured at all, but Bethany’s expression looks stronger than it ever has in Kirkwall. The spark and the fire is back in her eyes, and she holds herself with more strength than she used to. She doesn’t need support to walk either. 

Bethany lifts up a hand and experimentally clenches it into a fist. A small burst of flame answers her call, and she looks up at Hawke. “I’m back,” she says simply.

Hawke’s lip quivers a bit before she throws her arms around Bethany. She buries her face into Bethany’s shoulder — which is frankly disgusting with all the sweat and grime — and stays silent for the entire duration of the embrace. Hawke’s chest shakes with the force of her restrained, soundless sobs. Soon, she can feel Carver pull them into a giant hug as well: the kind that they always used to do in Ferelden during younger days. 

They stumble back to the Amell estate, and both Hawke and Carver hold Bethany’s hands during the entire trip back. Bethany doesn’t stumble or trip like she used to, but her hands feel unnaturally hot, almost as if her entire body had a fever. Bethany continues to assure both of them that she feels perfectly fine. Hawke’s known her sister for all of her life, and she knows that Bethany isn’t telling the entire truth. However, she quietly accepts it and moves on. There’s already been too much drama and fighting for a single night. She’ll address it the next morning.

Once they reach the estate, Mother sweeps Bethany up into a large hug at the entrance of the foyer. It’s a weepy, teary affair, and Hawke admits that she shed a few tears here and there. Carver would say that she turned into a sobbing mess, but she isn’t Carver. Mother heads up to tuck Bethany in bed and fusses over her the entire way up. Carver follows her, but Hawke stays behind to bid goodbye to Varric’s little gang of misfits. 

Merrill waves goodbye albeit with a much smaller wave than usual. It looks like she’s having difficulty waving with all the bandages and poultices strapped onto her bloody arms. Aveline only smiles with soft, gentle eyes. Hawke extends her hand out for a shake, and Aveline gives her the firmest handshake in her entire life. Hawke pauses to shake out her hand behind her back with a wide grin and hopes that Aveline doesn’t notice. Fenris doesn’t pay her much attention, and Isabela gives air kisses on her cheeks as a goodbye. Varric gives her a small salute, but Anders steps in front of him with a somber expression.

Hawke wrinkles her brow in confusion, but Anders says quickly, “Careful with Bethany.” Hawke cocks her head but Anders continues, “She might have severe nightmares for the next couple of weeks, but don’t let her take any sleeping draughts or drink any lyrium for at least two weeks.”

“Why?” Hawke asks. The familiar worry pricks up again, and she takes a step forward.

Anders shakes his head ruefully and answers, “Nasty side effect of being a Warden. You have terrible dreams all the time. But draughts and lyrium might mess with the antidote that she drank today. Her body needs to process the cure properly and adjust to being a Warden.”

Hawke’s shoulders sag with relief. At least her sister won’t be in danger of succumbing to the Taint any time soon. She’d take nightmares over death. “Then, maybe I should be a Warden then?” Hawke offers up with a trace of her usual humor. “I always have bad dreams.”

Anders’s expression turned concerned, and Hawke wonders if that was too excessive of a joke. “That’s not a good thing,” he says solemnly.

“I know,” Hawke says with another smile. She waves off Anders and says, “No need to worry though. I’d say it’s more of a side effect of living in Kirkwall rather than any single one problem, you know?”   
“Ah, I see,” he nods. “I get that. Dreams always seem to be more intense in Kirkwall. Well, good night then. Let me know if Bethany isn’t feeling well or acts differently.”

Hawke gives him a lopsided smile before saying, “Will do.”

He departs with a swirl of his ragged, feather-lined coat. Aveline and Isabela are still waiting for him in the foyer, and the rest have already left outside. 

“Take care, Hawke,” Aveline quietly says.

Hawke says, “Thank you so much for all of your help.” Her voice cracks slightly as she says, “It truly means a lot.”

Aveline shakes her head and says, “We’ve got to stick together to protect ourselves in a city like this.”   
“Aw, such a sweet moment,” Isabela croons. “But don’t worry so much, Hawke. You seem like a smart one, and you’ve got to be a touch one to survive this long in a place like this on your own.”

“I wasn’t though,” Hawke says. She gestures up to the second floor to say, “I had Carver with me.”

“That’s fair, but if you ever need help, you can come back to us,” Isabela says with a wink. She pats her chest, and her rings clink against her bronze necklace. “We’ve got your back.”

“I promised someone to come back and help your group out in exchange for Bethany’s life. I think I’d see you all fairly frequently now,” Hawke says with a shrug. 

Aveline turns on her heel and in a dangerous tone, says, “ _ Anders.” _

Anders sheepishly shrugs and sighs, “What?” He flushes red on his cheeks, and pink creeps down his neck too.

“So, you’ve finally learned to start asking for things, huh?” Isabela teases. She bumps his shoulder with her own and laughs, “Normally, he always heals and refuses to take any payment for it.”   
“I ask for a lot of things!!” Anders retorts. “I asked for a new hat once!”

“For Satinalia,” Isabela says dryly. “From me. Never from your patients. What’s brought this on all of a sudden?”

Hawke suddenly remembers paleblood and the way Anders’s eyes looked cornered, almost hunted. Not even apostates look that way in the end, not even the most desperate ones that Hawke’s seen so far. To be fair, Hawke didn’t know a whole lot of them, but she still remembers. Perhaps it was the Warden’s cure that cost him. She doesn’t know what went on, but something great had to have happened. Or maybe it was the mention of paleblood and blood draughts that set him off. She shrugs and assures them, “It’s fine. I would’ve helped you regardless of Bethany if I met you earlier or later. Again, thank you so much and good night. Stay safe out there.”

All three of them nod at her and depart. Hawke securely locks the door behind them and drags up a chair to barricade it for good measure. She leaves the entryway and double-checks the windows. There’s one board that looks a little loose, so Hawke grabs a spare nail and a hammer to pound it back into place. After surveying her work, she draws the curtains tightly shut. It’s not like there’s any sunrises or sunsets to let any sunlight peeking through the windows. Still, it’s better to see old curtains than to see boards over the tall windows.

Hawke trudges upstairs, and Dog follows after her heels. His tail wags and gives her a little bark. She gives him a small smile and quietly asks, “Are you going to keep first watch tonight then?” Dog gives her an affirmative bark, and she laughs. Even though he can’t speak Common, it seems like he knows what to do. He’s always been good about waking Hawke up for the next guard shift anyways.

When she looks up again, Carver’s at the top of the stairs waiting for her. She hurries up the last few steps and asks, “I thought you were in bed?”

He tilts his head and answers, “I was. I came down to check on the doors and windows though.”

“Oh, I’ve already done it,” Hawke says. “You can go back to sleep. I just boarded up one window that was a little loose. Sorry if that woke you up.”

Hawke tries to move past him, but Carver stands rigidly still with his eyes staring straight ahead. She pauses and backs down a couple of steps to squint at his face. “You doing okay?” she slowly asks.

His eyes drift over to her and he opens his mouth to hesitantly say, “...Thanks.”

“For what?” Hawke asks as she tilts her head to the same angle as Carver. 

For a moment, it looks like Carver’s going to answer, but he hurriedly shakes his head and jams his hands into his pockets. “Nothing. Just go to bed,” he roughly says as he turns on his heel.

Hawke stares at Carver’s retreating back before an idea flickers into her mind. “Did you overhear our conversation?” she calls after him. He freezes in his tracks just for a moment, but it’s enough for Hawke to dash after him while singing, “Okay~ You’re welcome, Caaaarver!” He groans loudly, but he allows Hawke to loop her arm around his shoulders.

She laughs for a little while longer before she quietly says, “I meant it, Carver. I wouldn’t have made it in this city without you, and I don’t think I credit you enough for it. Thank you for being here, Carver.” Her little brother doesn’t say a word, but Hawke unwraps her arm and pads off to bed.

Hawke slumps down on her bed and lets out a long and heavy sigh. Her entire body still feels disgustingly dirty, but she doesn’t know if they have enough water to let her have a nice bath without warning the beasts of their location. For some reason, running water catches their attention more. She examines her skin before changing her mind and going to the small bathroom attached to her room. She knows that the pipes and everything still work, but turning on a faucet might catch attention. The best time to use it are rainy days, but it’s been so long since rain came to Kirkwall. 

Instead, she lifts up a hand and casts out loops of magic that coalesce into crystals in the tub. Slowly, the pile of ice grows and grows until she’s left with a sizeable amount. Then, she begins to melt it all with a flicker of flame from her index finger. The fire runs down her skin and bubbles out of her fingertips with fat, sizzling golden drops that hiss upon contact with the ice. Soon, she’s left with a warm tub of water. Hawke casts off her dirty armor and sinks into the bath with a sigh of relief. After all the dirt and dried blood dissolves from her skin, she wipes down her armor and wrings out her dirty clothes. 

Finally, she falls into her bed once those details are taken care of. She stares up at the ceiling to wonder about what dreams the Fade would give her. Not good, she assumes, because Kirkwall never offers up anything good. But Varric and the others may have been the best thing that’s ever happened to her in the city thus far. She rolls over and buries her face in her pillow, searching for sleep. It doesn’t take long since she’s so exhausted. But when she sleeps, she dreams and dreams and _dreams_ of beasts and high-pitched calls to the wild. 

And during her entire dream, she can feel the eyes of someone watching her.


	2. the remains of a city

“Up high, Hawke!”

Hawke ducks down after the call, and sure enough, she hears the whistle of a crossbolt whizzing above her head. It hits a beast squarely in the eye, and amidst its roar, she summons stone to smash into the beast’s face. The rock that she tore from the Fade smashes against the beast’s skull, and she can hear the distinct crack of bone. She winces at the sound, but she rolls out of the way for Aveline’s shield to batter into the beast. That distracts it enough for Isabela to dart in and end its life with a well-struck blow. 

It falls to the floor, and Isabela walks away from its corpse while whistling a sea shanty. She examines the gold hilt of her dagger idly before she glances up to wink at Hawke. In return, Hawke gives her a thumbs-up and her trademark grin.

“That a thing Daisy taught you?” Varric asks as he strides over to them. 

Hawke shrugs, “Yeah, but it’s not as good as hers. Her Stonefists last  _ forever _ , but mine just break after one hit.”

Varric gives her a lopsided smile and says, “You’re a fire girl, Hawke. You sure you wanna fiddle around with stone stuff?”   
“That I am,” Hawke agrees. “Fire’s so much easier. You don’t need as much control. Just let it go and it’ll do its job, but I can’t just use fire all the time. Sooner or later, the beasts will learn.”

“Can they even learn?” Varric snorts derisively. “They always fall for the same tricks all the time. Same traps, same everything. Not sure if there’s anything left in their minds for them anyways.”

Isabela stops whistling to shake her head and warn, “Never underestimate anything. Anything can learn, anything can escape.”

“But beasts?” Aveline asks. “Not sure if they even have enough brains to think. Either way, it’s good that you’re learning new things, Hawke.”

“Thanks, Aveline,” Hawke says as she bends down to investigate the beast. There are still salvageable bits of fabric hanging from its twisted, spindly body. This one must have manifested recently.

Hawke doesn’t think it’s possible, but she stares up at the full moon hanging low in the sky. It’s been full for far too long, and the number of beasts have answered the dangerous moon’s call. There’s something about the bone-white light that makes her feel exposed despite the dimness of it, and she side-steps into a more comfortable puddle of inky, soft shadows that cast over the street from a nearby building. She shoves the items in her rucksack and shoulders it before trailing after Varric and the others.

This is her job now: hunting and hunting and hunting. Well, she’s a “Hunter” now. The job description is more or less in the title. Hawke, the Hunter of the Hunt. Hawke almost snorts out loud with the sheer thought of it. Now  _ that _ is a fun alliteration. Of course, there are a few different tasks depending on the day, and Varric prefers to call it adventuring rather than hunting. Then again, there are so many things that Varric can twist with a single play of words. She’s not surprised by it at this point, but she figures that this is the best she can do to pay back her debt.

Varric and his group, for lack of a better term, look out for the city. The Viscount’s Keep is barely standing, the Gallows are creaking with the pressure of danger and fear, and the entire city’s gone to shit. Both the keep and the Gallows are more preoccupied with the beast threat rather than the people themselves. Hawke suspects that if they could, they would burn all the people to purge the beast plague from the streets. It’s not a reassuring thought at all. Varric and his friends — including Hawke now — are the only thing keeping the city from crumbling down on its people.

They’re a motley bunch: a merchant, a healer, a guard captain, a keeper’s apprentice, a pirate, a runaway slave, a prince. Now, Hawke adds her own to the mix: a farmer’s daughter. Well, an apostate farmer’s daughter who is also an apostate. But still. They  _ help _ people whether than be hunting monsters, making potions and remedies for those who need it, and trying to keep the city’s people going for as long as they can. Varric still has connections from the Merchant’s Guild, and every two weeks or so, they go out to trade for various supplies. Beast pelts make surprisingly good leather, and Varric’s contacts aren’t picky. Some old Hightown houses still have gold lying around the place, and again, Varric’s contacts aren’t picky. 

While they keep the beasts off the streets, Anders works tirelessly in his clinic, now based in the Hanged Man. He makes cures for the plague — or at least, tries to — and makes potions, salves, and poultices for injuries. Aveline tells her that he used to live in Darktown, away from the prying eyes of templars and Knight-Commander Meredith. Now that Darktown is nearly overrun by beasts, he has to work in Lowtown. 

Hawke can’t help but wonder if he has any Warden duties to do. Bethany eventually left Kirkwall, saying that she had to answer the call. Of what call, she wouldn’t say no matter how much Hawke poked and prodded her about it. Her sister would only say that it was something related to the Wardens. Their mother certainly threw a fuss about it, but eventually, they all let Bethany go. It was something that was inevitable, like the waves crashing against the Wounded Coast or the eternal moon hanging in the sky.

As they round the corner, Varric comments, “Nicely done, Hawke. You’re pretty good at this. We could make you a champion of Kirkwall or something like that.”

“Nah, I’m fine with where I am. No need for titles. No one cares about them anyway,” Hawke tosses back.

“Just imagine it,” he says as he nudges Hawke’s side. “Champion Hawke of Kirkwall, Lady of Fire and Ice, Hunter of the Grand Hunt, Queen of Robbing Pockets, The Best Apostate In Kirkwall.”

“Beasts’ pockets,” Hawke corrects. “And only if they have them. And the title for best apostate may have to go to Anders since I’m a shit healer and we all need healing.” She does wonder if the Templars will ever come down on her for being an apostate. Sure, she’s a mage, but she thinks she’s a relatively useful mage. Keeping all the beasts down and staying out of trouble. A little bit. Knight-Commander Meredith might be strict, but the knight-commander is not a fool. At least, Hawke hopes so.

Isabela loops her arm around Hawke, and pulls her in closer. “Or, you could be a pirate with me,” she croons into Hawke’s ear. “We could make a great team out on the seas, you and I, sweetling.”

“I get seasick,” Hawke admits. “I threw up so many times while crossing the Waking Sea. I can’t imagine going out on sea and being, you know, a pirate.”

Isabela gives her a wink and replies cryptically, “You never know what the sea will make of you until you live on it.” She lets go of Hawke, and the bangles on her arm jingle next to Hawke’s ear as Isabela moves away.

“The sea would make a very, very seasick Ferelden out of me,” Hawke laughs.

Aveline nods along and says, “I got seasick too when I first moved here. Miserable time it was.”

Instead of going to the Hanged Man like they always do, Varric abruptly turns towards Hightown. He jams his hands into his pockets and whistles as he steps along while Aveline and Isabela exchange glances. Then, Isabela raises an eyebrow at Varric and says, “Choir Boy, huh?” 

“Yep,” Varric cheerily replies. “He said that he wanted help at his soup kitchen.”

“Charming,” Isabela dryly says. “He’s certainly trying, isn’t he?”   
Aveline snorts, “Better than what the rest of the city is doing.” 

“Better than the Viscount or the Gallows from what I can tell,” Hawke jumps in. “And Choir Boy? Is this someone I know?”

Varric looks back at Hawke and shrugs, “Probably not. Have you been to the Chantry?”

Hawke shakes her head and asks, “The Chantry’s still open? I thought it closed down after the plague. But even if it was open, I was too busy trying to keep Bethany alive.” 

“No, it’s still open,” Aveline sighs. “They’re not doing as much as they used to. No more healing draughts, no more open services. Now, the ones that are left — the ones that haven’t turned — are trying to hold prayer circles and provide shelter to those that need it. They’re rebuilding though. Slowly, surely, they’re rebuilding.”

“And Choir Boy’s at the head of that along with the Revered Mother,” Isabela chimes in. “Honestly, I thought that Elthina would have turned or died by now, but she’s still going. Choir Boy… He’s a pretty one but too devout for me.” She waves her hand with a dismissive gesture, and her bracelets clink against each other. They catch the moonlight and flash it at Hawke while Isabela continues, “But he’s got a good heart and deft fingers, I’ll give him that much. Now if only he’d get rid of his ugly belt buckle.”

“Belt buckle?” Hawke echoes.

Varric lets out a loud guffaw and chortles, “Oh, Choir Boy’s got this ugly belt buckle that has the face of Andraste on it. It’s directly over his crotch, and neither of us have had the heart to tell him about it. Actually, we told him once, and he told us that we were all going to burn for blasphemy in the Maker’s eyes.”

Hawke almost chokes on her laughter, and she can’t imagine any belt like that. Blessed Andraste indeed.

They make their way to Hightown, and despite the pallor that’s settled over the city, Hightown still feels somewhat cleaner than Lowtown. At least the bodies here are out of sight. Not quite out of mind though. They take a different route through the district than Hawke’s used to. It’s a sector that she’s never had the time to step through, but here, it looks more like a religious quarter with tattered banners still hanging from some banisters and lampposts. The sword of Mercy, Andraste’s sacred flame, and more. It all seems like relics from a long-gone age, and Hawke wonders what Kirkwall would have been like in its prime. 

The Chantry building looms overhead, and  _ that _ is something that Hawke’s seen before. Only in the distance though. The building itself appears to be completely intact, and the only thing changing it is the moonlight that lights it instead of bright sunlight. There are some people with hats and hoods tightly pulled up to hide their faces in shadow. They walk towards the Chantry with quick, mincing steps, and they glance around furtively before going in. Aveline sighs beside Hawke and says, “Everyone’s skittish now. Never know when a beast will come out."

“Doesn’t stop some people from trying to rob my house though,” Hawke grumbles. “Especially those leftover people from the Carta. I had a dwarf burst into my house one night! He was raving about hawks and whatnot.” Hawke shrugs and continues, “Probably referring to me out of all people there, but still.”

“Yeah, Carta people left here — the ones who haven’t left yet — are either crazy or cutthroat. Weird how that works, huh,” Varric adds. “Dwarves don’t really turn into beasts as much as you humans do, but I don’t think I’ve seen a Carta beast yet. But yeah, sorry about that, Hawke. I’ll check in with my contacts again about it.”

“No worries,” Hawke hurries to assure him. “We took care of him. Dog really went at him, biting and nipping everywhere. We had to brush Dog’s teeth just to make sure he was going to be okay.”

“Dogs don’t get the plague, do they?” Isabela asks with a furrow of her brow.

Aveline shakes her head with the same confused look and says, “No, they’re not supposed to. Do you regularly brush your dog’s teeth though? That sounds like something Leandra would do though.”

“I don’t really mind,” Hawke sighs. “But If Dog’s going to have bits of dwarf stuck between his teeth, his mouth is going to reek of it later on. And yes, Mother is very particular about that. But dog teeth and dwarves aside, we’re at the Chantry now. Where is this Choir Boy?”

And it’s true. The Chantry is now in front of them, and despite the night, the Chantry still looks fine. The stone steps leading up to the Chantry’s doors are relatively clean: no bodies or blood from what Hawke can tell. The banners hanging from the sides and stone columns of the Chantry are still clean and whole. The statues remain standing, looking down upon Hawke with their impassive, marble faces. She never liked the statues at any Chantry she’s ever visited. They always manage to have some haughty look about them no matter what scene or figure they’re meant to represent, and they’re a constant reminder of the Circles and the system that the Chantry upholds. A danger to Bethany, her father, and herself. Sure, she doesn’t have much to worry about in terms of the Circle here in Kirkwall and the plague, but the threat and the thought is always there at the back of her mind. Hawke impulsively makes a face at them, and after that, she hears, “You’re new here. Is there something distasteful about the Chantry to cause that expression?”

Hawke tears her gaze away from the statues to see a red-haired man standing nearby them with an incredibly worried expression on his face. The next thing that she notices is the blindingly white armor, and almost inevitably, her gaze drifts down to his crotch. Sure enough, she sees the carved face of Andraste on his belt buckle. The worry on the man’s face morphs to something of weariness, and he sighs, “You didn’t tell her, Varric, did you?”

“Nope,” Varric says smugly. “Not me this time.”

Isabela raises her hand and cheekily says, “Me! Your best and most wonderful pirate friend.”

“You’re my only pirate friend,” the man sighs. 

Isabela places her hands on her hips and says with a smirk, “I know. That way, the title will always be mine. And hey, you could have met a worse pirate. Instead, you managed to meet the Admiral of the High Seas, and that’s an accomplishment you don’t achieve every day.”

“That’s true,” he concedes. Now, he turns to Hawke and offers her a charming smile before he dips into a bow. “My name is Sebastian Vael,” he says to her. “A pleasure to meet you, although I do wish we met under better circumstances. A plague-ridden city is not the best place to be, but perhaps, that is simply the Maker’s will.”

“Hawke,” she offers in turn. “Call me Hawke. Nice to meet you too. And ah, you’re the Chantry brother, I assume? Varric only called you ‘Choir Boy.’”

“Because he  _ is _ a choir boy,” Varric cuts in.

Sebastian holds up a hand to stop him and says, “I  _ was _ a choir boy. Now… There’s no one really left to make a choir.” His shoulders sag with dejection, but he pulls himself together and looks back at Hawke. “And to ask you again, is there anything wrong with the Chantry? I couldn’t help but notice your expression.”

“Oh no no no no,” Hawke hurries to say. The words spill out of her mouth faster than she can say them properly, and she flushes pink. “It’s just… I wasn’t expecting the Chantry to be so clean! Or big! Or still existing at this point! You know, with all the mess everything’s in?”

Sebastian gives her a gentle smile — and Hawke knows it then that he really is a Chantry brother and all — and says, “I will take that as a compliment. I try my best to keep the Chantry clean along with a few remaining sisters and brothers.”

“How’s Elthina?” Aveline asks. She steps forward and continues, “I heard she was sick. Does she… Does she have the plague?”

“No,” Sebastian says with a shake of his head. “That was just a common cold, and she’s all better now. But she’s weak. Incredibly weak. I don’t know how long she’s managed to hold on.”

“Who is Elthina?” Hawke interjects. 

“Elthina is the Revered Mother of Kirkwall’s Chantry,” Sebastian answers. “She oversaw everything in the Chantry, and she was here before the plague. And… She already has the plague, but she’s kept her sanity and her wits about her with constant prayer and the Chant. The music soothes her, and being in the Chantry helps her more.”

“Oh,” Hawke says blankly. She doesn’t really know what to say in response to that, but the wheels in her mind turn faster and faster. A person with the plague who hasn’t succumbed to it yet? Through sheer willpower? That seems like a superhuman feat to Hawke, and she assumes that this Elthina must have an incredibly stubborn will.

Sebastian claps his hands together and says, “Well, I did not invite you here to waste time idling outside the Chantry. Not that I dislike speaking with you all, but it’s more dangerous out here. You can help me inside the Chantry.”

He begins to ascend the stairs, and without hesitation, the rest of the group follows him up. Hawke eyes the Chantry warily. She’s never trusted the Chantry. Out of the three Hawke children, Bethany was always the one to prefer the Chantry more despite the dangers it posed to them. She loved the Chant, the flickering candles, and the stories that one Lothering sister told all the time. Carver was generally tolerant of it and mostly went because all the pretty girls in the village went. Hawke, on the other hand, feared it. She always kept an eye on the nearest Templar and kept tabs on who seemed the most suspicious, the most likely to turn on them. Perhaps it was a side-effect of being the eldest child — the burden of responsibility and age fell on her more than her siblings — but part of her wonders if it was purely because she never believed in the Maker at all. Oh, Andraste definitely existed, but Hawke figures that she was probably just a mage who saw a dream from a spirit deep in the Fade. Still, Hawke stares at her friends’ backs before morosely following them up the stone steps. 

Sebastian heaves the large, wooden doors open, and inside, Hawke sees tall, vaulted ceilings with banners still draped from them. There are empty candle-holders that line the pathway up to the main pulpit, and the pews are empty as well. Still, there are some candles at the very center of the Chantry where a golden-hued statue of Andraste stands. Sebastian glances back at Hawke and says, “Sorry about the state of the Chantry. We’re trying to conserve our candles, so we keep it only to a certain part of the Chantry.” He turns back and wistfully says, “It used to look amazing before the plague. Light everywhere, coming through the windows and from the candles. People used to fill these pews and even go upstairs to pray in a more private alcove near the statues.” Sebastian clears his throat, and now, Hawke can physically feel the brighter tone he forces into his voice now. “But what’s done is done, and I am glad that we still have the Chantry. It could be so much worse, you know, and we still have all the statues and pews. We can rebuild. We can mend. The Maker will provide.”

Varric pats Sebastian’s arm and says, “Being optimistic, Choir Boy? You know, you could’ve left Kirkwall long ago. Bring back some more candles for us from Starkhaven, eh?”

Sebastian lets out a long, gusting breath before he says, “I couldn’t leave Mother Elthina and the other sisters and brothers behind. Not to mention all the people that we still help here at the Chantry. No, I couldn’t leave Kirkwall knowing that I could’ve helped more here than anywhere else.”

“And I keep trying to convince you of the opposite,” Varric mumbles.

Isabela glances over at Hawke and explains, “Choir Boy here is a prince of Starkhaven. He could leave any time! Crazy, isn’t it? If i had a boat, I’d be out on the high seas faster than you could say pirate.”

“Kindness makes people stronger and wiser, Isabela,” Sebastian chides. “Staying here means I can help more people regardless of the risk to myself.”

“Say that again when you get attacked by a beast in the streets,” Varric cuts in. “Honestly, Choir Boy, you could do so much better than this.” He gestures to the Chantry, and Hawke follows the direction that he points at.

Sure, the still-existing banners and statues and the central candles make it seem as though people still care about the place. However, Varric points out all the small spots that show age and strain. Moth-eaten corners of some banners. Chips in the sides of the walls in deep, jagged cuts from what seem to be claws. Hawke doesn’t know why a prince out of all people would  _ choose _ to stay here. Hawke’s here because of necessity and circumstance, but there is absolutely nothing stopping this Sebastian Vael from returning to a glittering palace in Starkhaven other than his own will.

They circle around to a vestibule along the transcept of the Chantry. Sebastian glances around the Chantry before opening the door, and Hawke wonders why he has to be so careful around his place. Granted, she would be wary herself, but she has every reason to fear a Chantry. This man doesn’t.

“There aren’t as many people here today,” Isabela comments as she leans casually against a wall while twirling her dagger in hand. The golden hilt of it catches the candlelight with every spin, and it casts light across the shadows that loom from the tall statues.

Sebastian steps into the room as he sighs, “No, there’s not. I’m afraid that the recent surge…” He trails off and moves around the room, transferring a series of packages from a shelf to a table in the center of the room. When he sets down the last package, he resumes, “It did much damage to the usual worshippers.”

“Ouch,” Varric mutters under his breath. Hawke sees him reach over to thumb over Bianca’s polished wood surface. She looks to her other companions and sees Aveline’s brow knitted with worry.

“Are they alright?” she says with worry dripping from her voice. She bites her lips, clearly angry with herself. “We don’t have enough people for a proper guard anymore,” she says. “The templars though… They only stay near the Chantry and the Gallows now. I don’t think they cope well with the red lyrium from the beasts.”

Hawke stops at that. “Are there still mages in the Gallows?” she asks as her blood runs cold. She thought Kirkwall was too far gone to merit the maintenance of the Circle. Come to think of it, she’s never really seen a Templar or the infamous Knight-Commander herself. Perhaps she was too preoccupied with other worries, but if they were near the Chantry, she should have seen at least a couple in Hightown alone.

“Some,” Varric answers. “Knight-Commander Meredith insists that we need to keep a closer eye on the mages since  _ they’re _ the ones behind the plague, supposedly. Others… Have different opinions than her. Especially First Enchanter Orsino. Mother Elthina doesn’t do anything about it either.”

“I can see how both perspectives feel strongly about it, and Mother Elthina is doing her  _ best _ considering her current state of health. But politics and personal thoughts aside,” Sebastian cuts in. He gestures over to the packages and says, “I asked you to come and help me make food to distribute. I managed to contact a merchant outside the walls who agreed to trade with the Chantry.”

He unwraps the brown paper and unties the rough string tying everything together to reveal fresh food. Hawke’s stomach growls, and she flushes bright red. Sebastian only laughs. He reaches over to grab a clean knife from a shelf and slices off the heel of a loaf of bread. “Here, I believe you need this,” he says with a sparkle of merriment in his eyes.

Hawke won’t deny free food when it comes along, but she does continue to flush. “Thanks,” she says as she tears into it. It’s good bread, soft and still vaguely warm. 

Sebastian directs them to prepare different kinds of food, and Hawke has more fun than she expects. Varric and Aveline are charged with the soup while Isabela chops vegetables and slices bread. Sebastian washes and peels vegetables for Isabela while Hawke keeps the fire at an even temperature and packages everything up. 

Isabela sings old sea shanties with words that make Sebastian almost choke sometimes, and Varric joins in with tavern songs of his own. Sebastian holds out as long as he can until Varric starts singing a particularly rollicking song about Andraste using her own underwear as a war banner. That’s when he puts his foot down and lectures Varric about the benefits of honoring the Maker’s Bride properly. Hawke laughs far too hard and almost lets the fire roil up too hot before she reaches her hand to pull the temperature back. It’s certainly a creative song, and Hawke thinks that it’s not a bad idea for a war banner. Fabric is fabric after all, and underwear might catch the attention of soldiers more than a regular piece of fabric. 

When the food is all done, Sebastian surveys their work with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “Thank you very much for all of your hard work,” he says with a smile. “This will help feed all the people that come today, and if the conditions seem alright, I’ll go out and bring some food to people in the other districts.”

Varric clears his throat and says, “You know what I think about that, Choir Boy.”

“Don’t worry,” Sebastian says dismissively. “I’ll let you know if I go out, and we’ll go out with a full group. I am not a fool, Varric.”

“Sometimes, you really are,” Varric mutters. “A well-intentioned idiot, but still an idiot.”

“Most of us are,” Isabela points out. “You are too.”

That manages to get a laugh out of Varric, and he tosses back, “Absolutely. We’re just a bunch of fools doing our best in Kirkwall.”

“We’re going to be late for Merrill,” Aveline interjects. “We have to go now. We’ll see you at the alienage later, Sebastian?”

Sebastian nods. His gaze drifts over to Hawke and he asks, “Have you ever been to the alienage?”

Hawke shakes her head and inquires, “Is it still standing? I thought with all the plague and beasts and things, the alienage would be one of the first places to fall.”

“It’s actually doing quite well,” Sebastian answers. “The elves have made it a safe haven for themselves surprisingly. With.. The help of magic, of course. I do not think they could have done such a feat in any other way.”

Hawke’s eyes open wide, but she doesn’t say anything more. If they’re going to the alienage anyways, it won’t matter whether Sebastian tells her now or if she sees for herself later. But magic? Did the elves in the alienage have some sort of charm against the plague or something of that nature? She doesn’t recall seeing anything or anyone alive past the large iron gate and the wooden walls marking the alienage apart. 

She follows the rest of the group through the winding streets of Lowtown without another word. It’s a rare thing for her, and she just  _ knows _ that Aveline and Isabela must be watching her with concern. Still, she shakes it off and ponders the thought over and over in her head. They stop by the Hanged Man to pick up Anders, Fenris, and the rest, and the entire party heads down to the familiar walls.

Fenris is first to step towards the iron gate and rap against the wood of the wall. An elven guard suddenly slips out of the shadows at the sound, and the two exchange words between the bars of the gate. After a short exchange, the guard carefully opens the gate by a crack just large enough for one person to squeeze through. 

When Hawke steps inside the alienage, she’s shocked to see how much it seems… Alive. Outside the iron gate separating the alienage from the rest of Lowtown, the entire area seems desolated and dangerous. However, the further Hawke walks inside, the more she realizes that this is the greatest number of people she’s seen in a single, concentrated space in the entire city. There’s soft flute music that starts filtering through the streets first, and then, Hawke hears the sound of footsteps and conversations.

“You’re here!”

Hawke looks up to see Merrill dressed in different clothes. She’s wearing flowing robes that wrap around her body and flare out at her waist, and her vallaslin are accentuated with paint that stretches across her skin in the same, extended pattern. “We’re having a little festival to honor Mythal’s moons,” she says with a bright smile. She shrugs and gestures over to the twin moons hanging low in the Thedosian sky. “We see them every day anyways, but we used to honor Mythal on this day. That’s why I wanted all of you to come today! It’ll be exciting!” Merrill pauses and cocks her head to the side as she pricks her ears up. Her lips twist into a small pout as she says, “Wait a little bit, I think there’s some kerfuffle in the back.” She vanishes around the corner with only her robes trailing behind her in a fluttering, airy manner.

The rest of the group shrug and round the corner after Merrill, but Hawke can’t move. She stands still and tilts her face up towards the sky with her eyes shut. The air feels cleaner here, and Hawke sucks in as much air as she can. She’s forgotten what it was like to breathe fresh, clean air without the redolent scent of iron blood or rotting flesh. Even the Amell estate smells like old wood and dust. Merrill pops around the corner again and skips toward her with light steps that barely seem to brush the ground.

“Come on!” Merrill calls out. “You’re missing everything.” She stops in front of Hawke, examining the dazed expression on Hawke’s face. Her own expression clears with understanding, and she leans in to ask, “Have you ever been to the alienage before? You must have not if you’re so amazed by it. It’s so lovely, much more lovely than it was before the plague. Creators, that sounds strange, doesn’t it? But it really has improved.” Merrill’s eyes shutter a bit, and Hawke can’t detect what emotion flickers behind them. But Merrill gives her a shy smile and says, “Probably the magic. It’s gotten a lot easier to do it without the guard or the Templars breathing down on our necks. The ones surviving probably think we’re mostly dead. It looks that way if you look at the alienage from outside.” She grabs Hawke’s hand and tugs her along, closer and closer to the center of the thrumming hub. 

Hawke lets herself be dragged to the alienage, and her jaw drops when she finally sees it. There’s a gigantic tree in the center of the main square within the alienage, and the light of the moon threads through its branches and filters down in focused beams on small pots ringing around the base of the tree. Merril points at the pots and says proudly, “We mages are distilling the moonlight into stronger sunlight to grow some food. The vhenadahl is the perfect conduit for storing some extra sunlight too. It’s how we cope with the constant night now. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Hawke gapes at the giant tree, and she sees the way the plants stretch up to meet the light with the open face of their leaves. She looks up and sees how all the other elves are thriving in this seemingly abandoned part of the city. They bustle around, and she can’t see the telltale signs of the plague ringing the irises of their eyes or paling their skin to the color of the bone-white moon. 

Anders stands beside her and gazes at the tree as well. “There’s a reason why they’re all still safe and sound,” he suddenly says. “And it’s because the Chantry thought elves weren’t good enough to get the blood draught.” He turns to her, and Hawke sees a darker fire in the blue of his eyes. “An act of racism and hatred was enough to condemn the Chantry and the rest of the city,” he says seriously. “Now look at how magic and goodwill are enabling the elves of Kirkwall to survive and even live a good life within the remains of the city. Don’t you think the rest of Thedas should be like this?”

“What? The plague?” Hawke says blankly. 

Anders snorts, “Maker, no, I hope not. But the magic. Don’t you think it would be better if we didn’t have the Circle?”

“I thought that the Gallows was still active,” Hawke says cautiously. Frankly, she thinks that the both of them are biased due to their status as apostates, but it’s an appealing thought. No fear of Tranquility, no fear of being forced to make a phylactery, no fear of being hunted down and executed. But ages upon ages of history and legacies won’t change a thing. No, Hawke fully intends to make the best of her life with what she has, but she won’t actively seek out a destructive idea like that. It’ll put her mother and her siblings in danger, and she cannot do that to them. Not when they were just saved. 

Anders waves his hand dismissively and says, “The Gallows is only active because Knight-Commander Meredith is still clinging to life and her old-fashioned ideals. She’s living in fear, and that fear is the only thing motivating to keep holding down the mages that couldn’t get out of the Gallows. The same goes for Revered Mother Elthina. She could have convinced Meredith to let the mages find some sort of refuge or escape the city, but they locked every mage in. Now, they’re running out of resources while the beasts try to ford through the waters to get at the mages inside.”

“How many mages are still left?” Hawke asks. Her expression darkens at the thought of all those mages trapped without any place to go. “And how are they surviving? How are they getting food and resources? There’s nothing for them there.”

Anders grimaces, “I couldn’t tell you how many, but what I can say is that the plague is in the Gallows just as surely as it’s in here. Some of the mages drank the blood draughts that the Chantry distributed. They might claim that it’s part of old Kirkwall traditions, but Kirkwall was originally a Tevinter city dominated by blood magic. Pretty much anyone who’s had a sip of those potions has a chance of catching the plague. No one from our group, I think. None of us got sick or injured enough to need them, but… There you have it. The misery all pent up inside Kirkwall. A real charmer of a city, isn’t it?”

Silence falls over them, and the flute music in the background crescendos into the final stretches of its melody. Anders heaves out a long sigh before he turns to Hawke with a brighter smile. It’s a little forced around the edges, but the look in his eyes is genuine enough for her. “Thanks for listening,” he says. “Some people get antsy when I talk about this kind of stuff. I appreciate it.”

Hawke waves it off and says, “Words are just words, yeah? And besides, it’s not like our situation can really get worse, right?”

The minute the words leave Hawke’s lips, a scream rings across the square. The shrill, harsh sound cuts through the flute music and the chatter of the crowd, and Hawke’s blood runs cold. She catches Anders’s side-eyed glance and mutters, “Oh, shut it, don’t even start, Anders.” She swings her staff off her back and hefts a handful of magic in her other hand as she sprints across the square. Already, the mages in the crowd have raised up a protective barrier shimmering around the alienage. The sheer sensation of so many mages makes Hawke’s teeth rattle; the magic is strong, too strong. 

She skids to a stop in front of the iron gate, and her eyes widen when she sees the beast. It’s large and misshapen as all beasts are, but this beast has red crystals jutting out of its back. It drags a large, two-handed sword in its twisted fingers, and the tatters of clothes and armor still on its body have the iconic Templar sword emblazoned across the scraps. Everything about the beast sets Hawke’s nerves on edge from the former Templar outfit to the crystals spiralling out of its skin. The air around the beast seems to vibrate with a discordant song, and Hawke just wants to curl up and clamp her hands over her ears. She hears a soft gasp behind her and then, she hears Merrill’s voice breathe out, “Oh no. Oh, creators, oh no. That doesn’t look good.”

“It doesn’t,” Anders cuts in. His voice is sharp and dangerous in all the wrong places as he continues, “That’s not a regular beast.”

He’s interrupted by Varric swearing worse than Hawke’s ever heard him say. She tears her gaze away from the beast to swivel around and look at Varric. He looks pained as he says, “I thought we got rid of that thing. We took care of it. It wasn’t supposed to come back like that.”

“I thought so too,” Anders grits out. “But evidently, it’s not, and it’s in front of us.”

Aveline, Isabela, Sebastian, and the rest of their motley group slowly filter out of the crowd and stand before the iron gate again. They gaze at the beast sniffing up and down the streets and wince when it lets out the same screech as before. “It can’t find us,” Merrill tries in a deceptively light tone. “Our shield is strong enough to keep us safe.”

“But it won’t keep the others in the city safe,” Sebastian slowly says, horror coating every word. 

Aveline turns to Sebastian and hurriedly says, “Security in the Chantry. What is it like?”

“Meager at best,” Sebastian answers with his eyes still fixed on the beast. “We don’t have any magical shields like the alienage does. Once it gets through the barricaded door, that’s it. We still have people from the food handout resting in the Chantry, and that doesn’t include all the people hiding in the remains of Lowtown and Hightown.”

Hawke tracks the beast’s movement and takes note of each and every habit it seems to display. It travels in circles and drags the sword behind it which adds to the cacophonous noise. It also has a tendency to list to the left, and Hawke catalogues that in the back of her mind. She sucks in a deep breath — one last breath of pure air — before she steps over to the iron gate and opens it up just enough for her to squeeze through. The sound catches the beast’s attention, and with a cocky grin, Hawke waves at the beast. “How are you doing on this fine, fine night?” she inquires. “I was doing fine until we had this little interruption. I’m sure we can resolve it though. Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?” 

The beast’s only answer is a loud bellow, and Hawke cringes, “Ah, I see we have many concerns. So do I, beast, so do I.”

The beast lunges forward with a snarl, but a tap of Hawke’s staff on the ground activates a glyph of paralysis beneath it and holds it down in place. She grits her teeth and raises her hand up in the air to wrap mana around it. Then, with a heave, she sends force magic pounding down on the beast hard enough for her to hear the sound of its bones breaking. However, the beast shudders and the red lyrium from its back  _ grows  _ from its back with a crunch. It surges up and tries to resist the glyph. Hawke dashes out of the way as it clambers out with a slam. 

“Hawke!”

She doesn’t waste the time it takes to glance back and favors a good cone of cold instead. Ice radiates out from her outstretched fingertips and holds the beast in place for one moment longer. Before the ice can melt, she consolidates another fist of stone and brings it down with a smash. The beast bellows and then screams even louder when a crossbolt from Bianca finds its mark in its eye. “Move out of the way, Hawke!” Varric yells. Her friends have all slipped past the safety of the gate and ring around the beast with their weapons drawn. 

Sebastian notches arrow after arrow that find their mark on all the exposed skin between the misshapen templar arrow, and Aveline distracts it with a slam of her shield. Fenris flickers in and out of sight as he slashes and stabs with his sword. Merrill raises herself off the ground with lashing tree roots she summons to split through the ground and lash onto the beast. Isabela dashes in and out to leave bloody trails where her knives slashed, but Hawke controls the battlefield with waves of magic that surge from her outstretched palm. 

The red lyrium grinds down on her nerves, but Hawke has been through worse. The sensation almost reminds her of the time when Bethany and Carver teethed on her instead of her teething toys. Constant and incessant and thoroughly uncomfortable all around. However, Hawke raises her hands and sends a wave of ice crashing over the monster. It shatters and sends pellet-sized pieces of ice flying everywhere. From those pellets, she summons a net of cold fury to tie the monster down. 

“Thanks, Hawke!” Varric yells as he shoots off another bolt. Isabela flashes her a wink before she darts in to stab her daggers right down its back. Everyone takes advantage of the opportunity, and Fenris moves forward to slash across its chest. Blood spurts out of the beast and soaks into the stones of the city, and they all move back just in time when the ice fades away.

However, Fenris doesn’t move back fast enough.

Time seems to slow down when Hawke sees the beast raise its arms and stab downward with his greatsword. The gleam of Fenris’s lyrium markings shine silver in the moonlight, and the red lyrium crackles in tune to the pulses that run down Fenris’s arms. All Hawke can truly think of is that she cannot let the beast lay a single hand on Fenris. Her body moves before her mind can make a solid decision, and she moves to block Fenris with her own body.

The last thing that Hawke really feels is the sensation of a blade driving through her stomach and all the way to her back. There’s nothing at first, then all at once, pain strikes through every part of her body and mind in a screaming, tearing sensation that pours over her consciousness. Every sound seems muffled. Is someone screaming her name? She can’t tell anymore. But, she  _ can  _ feel her blood dripping out of her body and splashing onto the concrete as the maddened beast pulls its sword out of her. She looks up into its face and sees the barely human eyes, pupils wide and dilated with the plague. Hawke tries to breathe, control something about her body that’s spiralling far beyond her reach, and grasps the last bit of magic left in her veins. She can’t feel the discordant lyrium song in her mana, so she supposes that’s one thing to be grateful about. Her blood catches on fire, and long lines of magic radiate out from her skin to snake around the beast.

She cracks a weak smile and chokes out, “Making the world a better place, one enemy at a time. I’ll drag you down with me even if it’s the last thing I do.” 

Then, her entire world sparks into flame.

Sparks fly as she heaves herself up. She throws her hands outward, fingers splayed, and molten lava pours from her outstretched hands. The fire along the beast’s legs roils and spreads upward, and it lets out a high-pitched scream before it stumbles into more fire. The sparks catch onto the beast’s misshapen limbs and ragged bits of clothes. With another wave of her hand, the heat intensifies. For a moment, Hawke imagines that this is going to be her funeral pyre, but she can’t feel the heat anymore. She can’t feel anything other than the bitter, lancing pain that strikes through her abdomen.

The beast falls and burns to ashes and cinders in the center of her inferno. Likewise, Hawke falls to her knees in the center of her flames. Time slows down for her, and she reflects back on the last few years of her life. Lothering, the darkspawn, the Witch of the Wilds, and now, Kirkwall. She only hopes that Varric and the rest will take care of her family when she’s gone. Her fire dims out and Hawke closes her eyes for what she thinks will be the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at this point, it's less of a bloodborne and dragon age crossover and more of a weird dragon age AU :") hope you liked it regardless!

**Author's Note:**

> mmmm all the characters feel vaguely ooc to me but we're gonna pretend like everything is okay! ! ! 
> 
> also,,,, i gave in to silly wishes and let bethany live bc i hate her death in da2. and again, i've never played bloodborne before so i hope this is okay :(((( i'll do my best to finish this as well! thank u for reading <3


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